Deep in the silent inner roomEvery fiber of my soft heartTurns to a thousand strands of sorrow.I loved the Spring,But the Spring is goneAs rain hastens the falling petals.I lean on the balustrade,Moving from one end to the other.My emotions are still disordered.Where is he?Withered grass stretches to the horizonAnd hides from sightAny road by… Continue reading Li Ch’ing-Chao
Worlds emerge and transform, so metaphor uses birds to extend disrupted thought. / I want to learn from what generated the metaphor, the need. — Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge, from “Coda,” A Treatise on Stars (New Directions, 2020)
Drawing diagrams I measuredMovements of the stars;Though her tender flesh is nearHer mind I cannot measure. —Tsangyang Gyatso, The Turquoise Bee: The Tantric Lovesongs of the Sixth Dalai Lama. (Harpercollins; 1st edition March 1994)
My handsome fatal foe,why are you gone so long?I can’t stop my heart from trembling, missing you.You put some sugar on the tip of my nose.I cannot lick it,though it smells so nice.You leave something sweet behindand let me think about it slowly. — Feng Menglong, Anonymous Poetry Collection (1574-1646)
O heart, heart, so singularlyIntransigent and corruptible,Here we lie entranced by the starlit water,And moments that should each last forever Slide unconsciously by us like water. — Kenneth Rexroth, from “Another Spring,” One Hundred Poems from the Chinese. (New Directions January 17, 1971) Originally published 1956.
And you are equal to a dangerousivory moon. — Wendy Xu, from “Here in This New Place is Your Memory,” You Are Not Dead. (Cleveland State University Poetry Center; 1st edition March 6, 2013)
I’m going to try speaking some reckless words, and I want you to listen recklessly. — Zhuang Zhou (c. 369 BC – c. 286 BC), The Complete Works of Zhuangzi. Translated by Burton Watson. (Columbia University Press December 3, 2013)
One range of mountains, Two ranges of mountains, The mountains are far, the sky high, the mists and waters cold. My lingering thoughts have reddened the maple leaves. The chrysanthemums bloom, The chrysanthemums wither. The wild geese from the border fly high, but my love has not come home. The wind and the moon play… Continue reading Li Yu (c. 937 – 15 August 978)
The Vale of Soul-Making 